


February: Meiosis

by caras_galadhon (Galadriel)



Series: A Figure of Speech [2]
Category: Lord of the Rings RPF
Genre: Angst, Established Relationship, Fear, Introspection, M/M, Painting, Vignette, Worry
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2008-02-29
Updated: 2008-02-29
Packaged: 2017-11-14 08:18:49
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 503
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/513201
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Galadriel/pseuds/caras_galadhon
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>February finds Viggo far away and lost in reflection.</p>
            </blockquote>





	February: Meiosis

**Author's Note:**

> This ficlet follows approximately a month after **[January: Pathetic Fallacy](http://caras-galadhon.livejournal.com/359714.html)** , but can be read as a standalone if so desired. I hope some lovely ladies will forgive me for making them share their (belated) birthday gift, but we all know how fast I turn out fic, so... Happy Belated Birthday to [](http://makamu.livejournal.com/profile)[**makamu**](http://makamu.livejournal.com/), [](http://afra-schatz.livejournal.com/profile)[**afra_schatz**](http://afra-schatz.livejournal.com/) and [](http://liars-dance.livejournal.com/profile)[**liars_dance**](http://liars-dance.livejournal.com/)! Many thanks also to [](http://savageseraph.livejournal.com/profile)[](http://savageseraph.livejournal.com/)**savageseraph** , who was of immense help while I struggled to track down the right overall literary figure for this story.

  
_" **[M]eiosis,** the Greek term for understatement or 'belittling': a rhetorical figure by which something is referred to in terms less important than it really deserves."_  
~From _The Concise Oxford Dictionary of Literary Terms_ by Chris Baldick.

_Red_. The swathe of colour cut across the canvas, dividing art from artlessness, sense from nonsense, dark from light, blue from green. The effect made Viggo smile, the bold stripe marking, marring the intermingling of azure and avocado. It'd be a good piece when he was done, something solid to be proud of. Something he'd be pleased to show Sean.

Not that Sean had been much pleased these past few months, and it wasn't like Viggo could blame him. Viggo'd been less than accessible, flung far from family, and while he could indict the steady flow of work, he couldn't deny that to a certain extent, he'd simply let the surf carry him away. It was something Christine had complained about in the past and, on occasion, Henry too. Inspiration made Viggo giddy, and with giddiness came a narrow focus and forgetfulness that simply wasn't conducive to long-term relationships.

Idly, Viggo dragged his fingers through the red, fascinated by the texture, the depth hidden underneath such a thin layer. This time of year always made him think of the insides of people, the pump and flow and feel of sticky, slowing blood from cut lips and battered knees. He imagined this was not the sentiment Hallmark was aiming for, not even in the face of their own store-based swathes of pink and red and white adorning rows upon rows of shelves like bone peeping through churning flesh.

Viggo lifted his hand from the canvas, captivated by the way the paint covered each fingerprint, so neatly obliterating identity. He drew the tip of one finger down his palm, an artificial slicing of skin, and wondered what was hidden under Sean's stoic silence, such secrecy strengthening and lengthening each time they spoke. If silence came tinged with taste, Sean's was the grit and tang of iron, reflective steel cutting clean through one's palate.

Soon, Viggo was certain, Sean's breath would be the only thing he heard down the phone line, all his gentle greetings and fond favours dried up and blown away, casualties of the same sea, the same tides that tugged so insistently at Viggo.

It was a simple thing, this distance, something that should be easily bandaged with the right word, the right stitch of sense to close up all wounds and draw them both closer. And yet that perfect phrase never seemed to make its way from heart to lungs to throat to lips, and Viggo found himself falling back on a world of trivialities, pretty painted pictures meant to fill in the deepening gaps, keep the creeping tide at bay.

Maybe he'd call Sean tomorrow. Touch base, let him know Viggo'd been thinking of him. Maybe then the right words would come.

Maybe then.

After the paint had dried and the colours were set.


End file.
